Lanark_ a life in 4 books - Alasdair Gray [223]
“Were you that boy?” said Lanark, shaking his head. “How’s Mrs. Fleck? Have you seen her lately?”
“Not lately, no. She hardly goes out these days. Arthritis. It’s her age. But thank Christ it’s you. I’ve seen six of these clerks, and every one of them has tried to put me off by sending me to another. The problem is, see, that I’m married, see, and me and the wife have a mohome. And we’ve two weans, six years and seven years, boy and girl. Now I’m not criticizing mohomes—I make the bloody things—but there’s not much room in them, right? And when we took this one the housing department definitely said that if I paid my rent prompt and kept my nose clean we’d get a proper house when we needed it. Well we’ve had an accident. The wife’s pregnant again. So what can we do? Four of us and a screaming wean in a mohome? And having to use a public lavatory when we need a wash or a you-know-what? So what can we do?”
Lanark stared down at a pen and a heap of forms on the counter. He picked up the pen and said hesitantly, “What’s your address?” Then he dropped the pen and said firmly, “Don’t tell me. It’s no use. This place isn’t going to help you at all.”
“What?”
“You’ll get no help here. If you need a new house you’ll have to find a way of getting it yourself.”
“But that needs money. Are you advising me … to steal?”
“Perhaps. I don’t know. But whatever you do please be careful. I haven’t met the police yet, but I imagine they’re fairly efficient when dealing with lonely criminals. If you decide to do something, do it with a lot of other people who feel the same way. Perhaps you should organize a strike, but don’t go on strike for more money. Your enemies understand money better than you do. Go on strike for things. Strike for bigger houses.”
Macfee screwed his face up incredulously and shouted, “Me? Organize a … ? Thanks for bloody nothing!”
He sprang up, turned and went toward the lift.
“Wait!” cried Lanark, climbing over the counter. “Wait! I’ve another idea!”
He forced his way through the dead air of the floor and managed to press into the lift before the doors shut. He was pushed against Macfee’s shoulder in a mass of older men and younger women.
“Listen, Macfee,” he whispered. “My family and I are shifting into a new place soon—you could get the old one.”
“Where is it?”
“In the cathedral.”
“I’m not a bloody squatter!”
“But this is legal—it’s run by a very helpful minister of religion.”
“How big is it?”
“About six feet by nine. The ceiling slopes a bit.”
“Christ, my mohome’s nearly that size. And it has a flat roof and two rooms.”
“But it would suit us fine, mister!” said a haggard woman holding a baby. “Six feet by nine? My man and his brother and me need a place like that.”
“Tell me one thing,” said Macfee belligerently. “What do they pay you for working here?”
“Enough to buy my own house.”
“Why do they pay you anything?”
“I think they employ a lot of well-educated people to keep us comfortable,” said Lanark. “And because they’re afraid we’d be dangerous if we had no work at all.”
“Fucking wonderful!” said Macfee.
“Honest, mister, that room you’re leaving sounds very, very nice. Where did you say it was?”
The door opened and they hurried across the entrance hall, Lanark keeping close to Macfee’s shoulder. As they came onto the pavement three armoured trucks full of soldiers thundered past. “What’s happening?” cried Lanark. “Why all these soldiers?”
“How do I know?” shouted Macfee. “I’m pig-ignorant, all I hear is the news on television and funny noises in the street. They were ringing the cathedral bell like madmen a short while back. How do I know what’s going on?”
They walked in silence till they reached a corner where a sign projected above a door. It was a fat red heart with pink neon tubes running into it and The Vascular Cavity underneath. Lanark said, “At least let me buy you a drink.”
“Can you afford it?” said Macfee sarcastically. Lanark fingered the credit card in his pocket, nodded and pushed the door open.
The room was lit by a dim red glow with